THE DEMYSTIFICATION OF TOM

My last name starts out with a first name, so people have a tendency to call me by it. I used to correct them from time to time, until the misidentification had a domino affect. No sense in chasing down the source when paths split and dominoes continue to fall. I can’t make people notice who I am; they have to do that on their own. Soon, the person I thought I was turned out to have another name, another role, leaving pieces of my other self for family and close friends, whom thought that maybe they understood my identity a little bit better. And I’m sure they do, it’s just that I sometimes feel much more alive when I’m on the war path at work, when the inmates are calling me "Tom-Tom."

Today is my birthday. I had originally selected a picture from my 5th Birthday Party. My name, "Jimmy," was easily identifiable by the Ford-blue masking tape strategically plastered onto my parent’s garage wall, next to the traditional Pin-The-Tail-On-The-Donkey game. The neighbor kids wore cone-shaped party hats with elastic string cutting into their chins. Although the photo was black and white, my hat was different, not in size, but in color—I’m sure of that—my parents, like most parents, would’ve wanted it that way. Birthdays, after all, are meant for recognition.

I’m not too sure why I dismissed this photo. Is it because it showed such promise for my future? Is it because I’m not too sure I know enough about the child blowing out the candles? What was he thinking on that day? What were his dreams?

Instead, I chose a photo of my 26th Birthday. "Why?" you may ask. After some reflection, I think it’s because I finally understood the direction I was headed. I finally knew that my schooling would pay off. Besides, the tee shirt said, "Tom."